


A Good Year

by whimsicule



Series: Under the Lights [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, Bundesliga, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco and Mario have twenty minutes to spend after Dortmund's win against FC Oberneuland. They could just shower - or do something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Year

**Author's Note:**

> They are by far the biggest talents in German football right now. They are best friends, Marco has just transferred to Mario's club and there needs to be more fic about them. So I am taking a stand. Please enjoy.

 

 

 

It’s a decent start to the new season. It’s the start that was hoped for, that was expected, that was needed after that frustrating Supercup against Bayern Munich – which was ridiculous anyway, because Dortmund won both competitions and it’s just fucking illogical that they just didn’t receive the trophy simply based on that.

But whatever, it’s not like Mario thinks that much of it, this season is going to be even more brilliant than the last, many factors contributing, but the main one now entering the hotel room after him, closing the door – finally.

He pulls his shirt off and it sticks to his skin, droplets of sweat running down between his shoulder blades because of the ridiculous heat. It’s already late afternoon, but the sun is still burning down, hot and tropical, air humid and thick. They have time for a quick shower before leaving for Dortmund after the Cup match in Bremen, but… Mario turns around, shirt still clasped in his hand, shorts tickling his hipbones. His heartbeat is heavy and fast.

Marco freezes and meets his eyes. Mario can see his Adam’s apple bounce before Marco opens his mouth to say something.

“What?”

His hands are pulling on the hem of his jersey, black and yellow, the crest above his heart and –

“Keep it on.”

Marco’s eyebrows rise, but his lips quirk slightly, giving him away. “You want me to keep it on?” he repeats superfluously. He has lowered his voice and Mario _knows_ him. “Dude, we have like, twenty minutes to shower.”

Mario holds his gaze for another second, then he shrugs and takes off his shorts with one fluid movement. Marco’s eyes drop for just a brief moment, but well – Mario knows him. “I only need five.” He’s won.

Marco bites his lip, pretends to ponder on it ( _pretends_ , because there is no way in hell that he’d ever pick a 20-minute-shower over a quickie and he knows that Mario knows and – well, you get the picture) and sighs melodramatically. He kicks off his shoes. “If we’re late –”

Mario rolls his eyes. “Who cares? Do me.”

He tries to be as efficient with his socks as he has been with his shorts, but it doesn’t work, of course. Losing balance, Mario reaches out to hold on to something, but he’s standing in the middle of the room; which means there’s nothing. Cursing, he ungracefully lands on his bare behind and Marco – that bastard – bursts out laughing. Fuck, he’s almost doubling over, red-faced and Mario curses again.

“Oh, piss off.”

Marco huffs a couple of times and holds his sides, but he comes closer nevertheless and when he crouches down in front of him, placing his hands on Mario’s kneecaps, Mario can feel the general heat ruling his body rapidly moving to his lower regions. Fuck that bastard.

Marco leans in. “I though you wanted me to _do you._ ”

Really, fuck him. Mario pushes himself up and yanks Marco down by his collar, not without intentionally brushing across the Borussia crest on his chest. Damn it feels good to see Marco in his colours. They’d joked about it at first, then talked about it seriously and now that it has happened; it just makes Mario’s heart clench and pound against his ribs and he’s not a sap or anything, not some teenaged girl, but he can’t help but think of a future where they play together and win together and lift trophies side by side.

“You’re grinning like –” Marco begins to say, but then Mario catches his bottom lip, bites and makes him gasp, makes his breath hitch and yeah, maybe Mario hasn’t told Marco specifically how happy he is to have him at Dortmund and that he’s basically grinning like a fool from sunrise to sunset because of that – but he figures Marco has got a fair clue.

The carpet of their hotel room is itching his back and it’s definitely going to give him burn marks, but Mario lets Marco push him back down and pin him to the floor by his wrists. Marco might be taller, but Mario has more upper body strength, so he seems a little startled by the lack of resistance.

“Hey,” Mario breathes and opens his knees. Marco slides and slips a little and their hips meet more forceful than intended, but – “ _Oh, fuck!” –_ they don’t mind. “Your debut, your goal – your reward.”

He pulls on Marco’s lips again, just because he fucking loves the unintentional moans that escape him when Mario does it and flops back down. Marco is looking at him, wearing the jersey, with wet lips and a flushed face, Mohawk positively dishevelled and – yeah, showers are overrated. Framing Mario’s hips with his knees, Marco sits straight up, shorts obviously tented, and starts to move the hem of his jersey.

Mario grabs his hand. “I said keep it on.”

Marco bats his hand away, but reaches for his shorts instead. “Jeez, bossy much. Is that a new kink I have to get used to?”

He dodges the fist aimed at his shoulder and laughs again.

“Really? Remind me, who begged me to fuck him in the National Team jersey?”

Marco frowns, blushes almost unnoticeably since his face is already the colour of bloody Bayern Munich, and tries to shimmy out of his shorts without entirely lifting his body off of Mario’s hips. It’s not graceful, but he manages and tosses them across the room.

“Whatever,” he whispers. “Can you shut up now.”

Mario angles his legs, nudges Marco in the shoulder with his right knee and folds his arms behind his head. “Make me.”

Marco smirks. It’s that particular smile that’s kind of crooked and only moves half of his mouth, but bares a few teeth, especially a quite pointy one that Mario loves to feel boring into his skin. “Oh I will,” Marco says and takes hold of Mario’s wrists again. He presses their chests together, hot skin sliding and creating friction and Mario wraps his left arm around Marco’s neck. His right hand reaches down between them.

“Oh shit,” Marco moans into the crook of his neck and his hands slip on the floor, then on Mario’s still sweaty thighs (no shower remember?). He can’t get a good grip and eventually has to dig in hard. The pain is short-lived but sweetly sharp, quickening Marios pulse just that right amount and he almost chokes on the soundless groan working up his throat. The back of his head hits the floor and for a moment, his surroundings spin and he has to reach out, needs to steady himself again and ends up with a handful of yellow. Not just a kink, it’s fucking practical and Mario pulls on the jersey, jerking Marco forward.

“Come on.”

Their teeth clank together. Marco breathes out through his nose and it’s hot against Mario’s cheek, echoes in the empty room. Mario tries to hook his legs over Marco’s shoulders, or at least his hips, but his skin is so damn slippery that it doesn’t work until he manages to cross his ankles against the small of Marco’s back. Okay, so they’re slick with sweat, but Marco spitting into his hand is still not going to be enough, so Mario braces himself mentally.

“I’ve got,” Marco starts breathless and looks around disoriented, “I’ve got, dunno, lotion or – something.”

He starts to move, but Mario strengthens the grip of his legs around Marco’s waist. “Don’t you fucking dare to get up now,” he hisses through his teeth. Marco has already got two fingers inside him and – “It’s fine.”

It’s not, and Marco knows that as well as him, but Mario isn’t some sissy, he can take it, he fucking _wants_ it, he is not going to be limping over a pitch in the next couple of days. And he doesn’t mind taking the catcalls on the bus later, it’s not like anybody doesn’t already know anyway.

“You sure?”

It’s sweet, it really is, but there are moments when Marco is a little too considerate for Mario’s taste. “Christ, Marco, _please._ Ten minutes. Just fuck me already.”

What follows is a bit more of awkward shifting and carpet rubbing against Mario’s back, but then – _finally –_ Marco starts moving and Mario tries to take in as much air as possible because every thrust pushes everything out of his lungs, resulting in choked, broken off moans, hitching in his throat. He rakes his hands across Marco’s back, adjusts his legs, and arches his back to optimise the angle. It’s hard work to make their bodies move together after already playing football in the scorching sun for almost two hours, it’s downright exhausting and when his orgasm rolls over Mario and drags Marco along at the same time, he thinks he could fall asleep on the both.

Breathing heavily, Marco pushes himself up onto his elbows and gives him a lazy smile, slightly crooked, just fucking adorable and – it’s good. It’s just so damn good.

“We should make a tradition out of this,” Mario suggests and watches Marco pulls of the stained yellow jersey.

“We should,” Marco agrees and sits back.

“But next time, I’m topping.”

Marco doesn’t reply to that, but he’s bloody delusional if he thinks Mario is going to bottom twice in a row. Debut over, no more favours.

“Hey,” Marco says instead. “You know you said you only need five minutes to shower?” Mario nods. “Well. We’ve got two.”

 

 

 

“You’re late,” Kloppo tells them as they enter the bus. Of course they’re the last ones to sit down.

“Sorry coach,” they answer simultaneously. “Won’t happy again,” Mario adds.

Roaring laughter erupts after that and Mario rolls his eyes when Neven claps him on the back. “You sure about that, Junior?”

He turns to Marco for support, but he has already put on his headphones, smirking exactly like he just got laid. That bastard. But it only takes a minute or two before he softly nudges Mario’s leg, crosses their ankles and drapes an arm over his shoulders. He pulls Mario close and Mario leans in and Marco’s lips and weirdly cool against his ear and –

“You moan like a girl.”

This time, Marco’s dodge is too slow and Mario manages to hit him square in the face. Serves him right, Mario thinks and leans back.

It’s gonna be a good year.


End file.
